Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“All things, people, and places can change, doctor. Nothing is static. From a microscopic speck of dust that may have landed on our favorite shirt, forever changing it without our knowledge, to somethin’ more severe… like waking up in the middle of a tornado and your entire house blows away right before your eyes. Life is different from second to second. Even our first breath this mornin’ was different than the one that followed.”
“When was the last time you got angry, Caspian?”
“…Irritated. Frequently. Anger? It’s been a long while, doctor.”
She was quiet, simply observing him with folded hands and her chin resting comfortably on them. Or at least, she appeared comfortable.
She has no idea who she’s dealin’ with. It’s always so funny to me to be around these brain pickers and watch them think they’ve got me pegged. Nobody knows who the hell I really am unless I want them to know, and if she thinks I’m gonna let some lab coat lady turn me into a guinea pig, or toss my name in the ring of suspects for some mass murderer on the loose, she’s got another thing comin’. I’ll play the game because it makes me look like I take my mental health seriously. It’s a great alibi, after all.
“If you’re being truthful with me, I must admit that I find you fascinating.”
“Well, life gets a hell of a lot easier when you can slap a label on someone, like a can of corn. I am a mystery canned good. You think I might be beans, but you’re not certain what type. Kidney. Lima. Black. Pinto. I suspect anyone with your set of credentials would find me fascinating. Maybe I’m some shit you’ve never even seen before, huh? Now wouldn’t that be somethin’?”
She laughed at that as he started up the car.
“Well, that’s our time, Caspian. I will speak to you in two months. As always, if you need anything, or something is on your mind, please call or email me. I would be more than happy to give you an extra session as needed.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. You take care now. Enjoy the rest of your day, Dr. Moore.”
“I will. You do the same.”
He disconnected the call and drove on. The twists and sharp turns out of the old parking garage almost made him dizzy, blending with the fog in his brain. When he exited into the direct sunlight, he rolled the window back down and immediately smelled the cool, crisp air. He reached over to the passenger’s seat and pulled out a tape recorder. Inside was a cassette.
Neville Goddard sang about ‘Imagination.’ He drove to the Ohio River to the sounds of that man, scratchy and distant. Phantastic. He arrived at a location where the boats sailed by slow and easy, far away into the distance. Branches of low-hanging trees covered in viscous foliage arched above his head like an awning as he bent down to dig into the computer bag at his feet.
He sat down on the damp soil and short blades of grass, and with gloved hands booted up the laptop. He checked to ensure he’d done a hard erase of the files. Having used his own internet skills and computer savvy, he’d sanitized the entire thing back to its factory settings. He then removed the hard drive with a few turns of a screwdriver, slammed all the parts onto the ground, including the laptop, and stomped on it until it cracked and broke before tossing the pieces, one at a time, into the river.
Like so many other cheap computers he’d acquired for his deep web dives, special research and extracurricular deeds, it ended up in a watery grave.
He walked back to his car and removed the rental car license plate, replacing it with a fake Los Angeles one. He then proceeded to place duct tape over one of the rear lights to make it seem as if it were damaged. Once he was back in the car, he drove to the neighborhood of Limerick, in Louisville, but first, he stopped and grabbed a pizza.
Parking outside a three-story, old red brick shotgun house as he’d done so many times before, he watched Felson Smith pull up to the dwelling in his copper-colored Oldsmobile, twenty-three minutes later. He’d just gotten out of work from his job at a local factory. Caspian knew the man’s schedule front and back. He glanced at the time on his car clock, then picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.
In about fifteen minutes, he’ll be sittin’ in his livin’ room, eating the dinner his wife made before she left for work and smoking a cigarette. His wife gets home about five in the morning. No one else lives there. Their four children are grown and moved out. All gone from the house. No dog. No guests.